


In Sickness and In Health

by AwashSquid



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwashSquid/pseuds/AwashSquid
Summary: Short drabble about Haruka experiencing a terrible fate: the common cold.





	In Sickness and In Health

**Author's Note:**

> I don't always write fluffy stuff, but when I do, it's usually 1. Prompted and 2. Sappy as fuck. The prompt here was the title, I believe.

Michiru awoke with empty arms and a cold bed. Rather than opening her eyes, she shut them tightly, like a child refusing to look into the darkness of their closet for fear of seeing a monster—but Michiru, well-acquainted with monsters, feared instead that if she opened her eyes, she would discover that the last few years of her life with Haruka had been a wonderful, terrible dream.

A muffled yell from downstairs followed by a suspiciously loud thud reflexively snapped Michiru’s eyes open. Her gaze was greeted by a pile of Haruka’s clothing left on the bed, and in that moment she had never seen a more wonderful sight than the crinkled suit haphazardly discarded on the pillow. A loud “SHIT” prompted her to toss off the comforter and quickly grab her robe and slippers, hastening to get downstairs. Haruka didn’t sound endangered, but Michiru kept her transformation wand ready just in case. Their last home invasion had been relatively harmless, but one couldn’t be too careful. (A month ago, Minako had broken in—half to show Haruka something she found hilarious, half probably just to demonstrate that she could—prompting Michiru to increase their home security sufficiently.)

Their modest home (compared to the extravagance in which Michiru had grown up, anyway) seemed too large now as she crossed it to reach Haruka. Entering the kitchen, the first thing Michiru noticed was the overwhelming smell of cold, canned chicken noodle soup. She wrinkled her nose, never having developed a taste for Campbell’s Finest Chicken Noodle with Fun Shapes. Said Fun Shapes—racecars, it would appear—were splattered all over the kitchen, broth seeping slowly over the tile. Haruka was sprawled on the floor, back against the cupboards, clasping an empty bowl. “Michi,” she croaked out, Michiru wincing at how pained her voice sounded. “Michi, is that you?”

Michiru would have laughed at Haruka’s dramatics if the latter woman did not look so pathetically ill. Tiptoeing through the soup carefully, Michiru crouched down to Haruka’s level, noting the sweat coating her face, much paler than its usual tanned color. The sick woman’s eyes fluttered, brow twitching as her body shivered lightly. A pale hand slowly reached out to Haruka’s forehead and wiped the wet bangs to the side, touch as gentle as the calmest sea swell. “You’re running a temperature,” she murmured lightly as her hand moved to cup Haruka’s cheek, flicking off a stray carrot with deft precision in the process.

“I may be dying,” Haruka wheezed, opening her bleary eyes. “Only true love’s kiss can save me.” Michiru fought very hard to not roll her eyes as she stood back up. Haruka reached out with a soup-covered hand, clasping at her robe—“My Princess, you must kiss me or I will surely perish!”

Michiru chuckled gently. “Ara, how about we clean you up, and then you can get a kiss, hmm? Perhaps,” she added, voice dropping a few tones, “multiple kisses, even.” Haruka’s distant expression filled with glee. It was clear she didn’t quite understand the meaning behind Michiru’s words, deliriously feverish as she was; however, like a puppy that recognizes it’s owners happiness even without understanding why, her level of enthusiasm similarly spiked.

Haruka took Michiru’s offered hand, and Michiru helped hoist her up, the blonde woman leaning heavily on her wife. Together, they slowly made their way upstairs, dripping broth behind them. That could be dealt with later, Michiru reasoned. Right now, she needed to focus on Haruka. She mattered more than anything else, more than even the fact that there were rubbery racecar noodles plastered to their kitchen ceiling.

Once in the bathroom, Michiru began to fill up their tub and carefully stripped Haruka out of her pajamas. After testing the water, she gently lowered the sick woman into the tub, and, following a quick shedding of her own clothing, sank into the warm water behind her.

Haruka hummed with pleasure as Michiru grabbed the soap and began to wash the other woman’s back, massaging gently. She kissed each light scar, left as results of their battles, as she washed, careful to use only the lightest touches, cleaning off the broth and sweat from Haruka’s fever.

“Sometimes, I think you’re an angel,” Haruka murmured softly. Michiru almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of this statement. Her hands, now washing Haruka’s hair, suddenly looked red, covered in blood rather than shampoo, blood that she could never truly wash off. Like Lady Macbeth, she mused, the damned spot never would leave.

“I’m nothing close to an angel, dear,” she muttered in response, tone laced with bitterness. Then, much more softly, in a tone reserved only for Haruka, “I’m just someone who loves you—someone who loves you enough to drown the world for you.” She kissed the back of Haruka’s neck softly, feeling the other woman sink into her arms. Perhaps she wasn’t an angel, she thought, but somehow, undeserving as she was, surely she had still managed to find heaven.


End file.
